I Was Looking For The

The Story Of A Poor Man's Life Is Written On His Body, In A Sharp Pen.

You Can't Expect A Man In A Dung Heap To Smell Sweet.

Too Much Of Indian Writing In English, It Seemed To Me, Consisted Of Middle-class People Writing About Other Middle-class People - And A Small Slice Of Life Being Passed Off As An Authentic Portrait Of The Country.

Neither. I Am Just One Who Has Woken Up While The Rest Of You Are Still Sleeping.

A Rich Man's Body Is Like A Premium Cotton Pillow, White And Soft And Blank. ''ours'' Is Different. My Father's Spine Was A Knotted Rope, The Kind That Women Use In Villages To Pull Water From Wells; The Clavicle Curved Around His Neck In High Relief, Like A Dog's Collar; Cuts And Nicks And Scars, Like Little Whip Marks In His Flesh, Ran Down His Chest And Waist, Reaching Down Below His Hip Bones Into His Buttocks. The Story Of A Poor Man's Life Is Written On His Body, In A Sharp Pen.